Sam looked at him, uncomfortable with his attention now. “Tell me the truth.”
“What?”
“Is the Cipher really connected to the Russians? Or is he just the carrot you dangled to get me here?”
Riley gazed at her. “He’s connected to this, Sam. Just like I said he was.”
“Then I’m going,” Sam said. “The Cipher killed one of my friends. I’m going to shut him down.” She paused. “Now give me some time to get dressed.” She turned away from him and picked up the woman’s clothing.
A moment later she heard him walking toward the end of the truck. Taking a deep breath, she pushed aside her fear over what she was about to step into, and she boxed the hurt that Riley had caused her. When she was safely in neutral, where she was aware of the pain in her body but not truly feeling it anymore, she pulled her top off and started getting undressed.
Stepping from the back end of the truck parked in an alley on the other side of Suwan, Riley joined Novak against the alley wall. The SEAL team commander looked ready and alert.
The SEALs kept a tight perimeter on the alley. Few of them were in sight. They had a way of blending in with their surroundings. Riley’s past experiences with the special forces warriors had taught him that.
“She’s going,” Novak said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah,” Riley said, confirming the SEAL team commander’s suspicion.
“We wouldn’t have caught her double if it hadn’t been for her.”
“I know.”
“You’re worried about her.”
“Hell, yes.”
“She’s good at what she does. She took that woman on after she put two of my guys down. Thomsen’s going to have to be medi-evaced out of here.”
“Sam’s good, but she hasn’t ever gone undercover before.” Then Riley remembered what Sam’s files had revealed to him. Actually, she’d been preparing for undercover work all her life.
“She’ll do all right,” Novak said. “If not, she has us. All she has to do is hit the panic button.”
“Yeah, well, the cavalry sometimes gets there too late.”
“Not in my movies,” Novak said.
A few minutes later, Sam stepped down from the back of the truck. If Riley hadn’t handcuffed her double in the truck, he would have sworn the woman had somehow escaped.
Riley walked over to her and studied her face. She was bruised and bloodied, her face swollen. He checked her eyes. Both pupils looked the same size, so there was a good chance she didn’t have a concussion.
“How are you feeling?” Riley asked.
“Like I was hit by a truck.”
Riley hesitated, not knowing what to say.
“I don’t have time for a long goodbye, McLane. Neither of us do.”
“I know.”
“Then I’m going.” Sam shouldered the bag they’d recovered that the woman had dropped, back when the young SEAL had first confronted her. She turned and started moving.
“Be careful,” Riley admonished.
She stopped for a moment. “I will.” She turned around to look at him. “If I call for help, don’t be late.”
“Bet on it,” Riley said.
“I am.” Without another word she walked to the end of the alley.
“That,” Novak said, walking over to join Riley, “is one hell of a woman.”
“I know.”
Out at the street, Sam flagged down a taxi, got in the back, and was gone in the space of a drawn breath.
The hotel suite was exquisite. The bath had an old-fashioned claw-foot tub, a shower and a whirlpool, settled into Italian marble the color of coffee with cream. The bed was a four-poster affair with a white linen canopy. The desk contained a notebook computer that, unfortunately, gave no clue to what Elizabeth Harris was up to. Or who she was doing it with. The kitchen area was well stocked and contained fresh vegetables and fruits.
Sam hadn’t been able to tell what room her double had been assigned from the computer keycard, and the information Riley had gotten from Fayed hadn’t revealed that. Before entering the hotel, she had thrown the keycard in the trash across the street, then told the desk clerk that she’d been mugged and had lost her key.
The desk clerk had no problem believing her story and had promptly re-encoded a fresh set of keys. The hardest part had been keeping the man from calling the police.
She’d spent the first fifteen minutes checking the room over, making certain that there were no bugs. Satisfied, she’d gone to the bathroom, stripped out of the clothes and showered. She’d wanted a bath more than anything, but she wouldn’t allow herself the luxury, afraid that she’d climb into warm, soapy water and not crawl out again.
She focused on the Cipher, remembering how the man had looked in the pictures she and Howie Dunn had found and the video footage from the Athena Academy. If Riley wasn’t lying to her, the assassin was out there somewhere in the city.
She dressed from her double’s closet, taking out a pair of khaki cargo pants and a sky-blue shawl-collar T-shirt. She wasn’t too surprised to find that her double’s closet was filled with the same kind of active wear she favored herself. She had definitely been going for the tourist look.
She had just finished pulling on a pair of canvas-colored cross-trainers that fit as well as her own shoes when the phone rang.
The strident, two-bell note startled her. She crossed to the phone and started to answer, then made herself remember to speak in Russian. “Hello.”
“Where are you, Elle?”
Elle. Sam hung on to the name instantly. Her double’s name wasn’t Elizabeth. It was Elle. The two names were close enough.
“At the hotel,” Sam replied. She had trouble speaking with all the damage that had been done to the inside of her mouth. “I was mugged.”
“By who?”
“I don’t know.” Sam swallowed. The voice sounded like Sergei Ivanovitch, matching the audio files the Agency had access to. “They were young men.”
“You?” Ivanovitch didn’t sound as if he could believe it. “Common muggers?”
“There were a lot of them.” Sam knew her garbled voice could cover a lot of the speech patterns she might have different from her double, but the best thing was too keep as quiet as she could. All she had to do was get near Ivanovitch’s computers long enough to slip the spyware into the machine.
And find the Cipher.
“They did not steal anything from me,” Sam went on.
“Were the police involved?”
“No. But the desk clerk knows.”
“Will he be a problem?”
“I don’t think so. I told him I didn’t want the attention. Besides, I couldn’t identify the men who attacked me. It would be wasted effort.”
“Did you leave any bodies behind?” The question sounded serious, not sarcastic or teasing.
“No.”
“I am in the lobby. I’ll be up in a few moments.”
Before Sam could reply, the phone clicked dead in her ear. Her heartbeat sped up and adrenaline flooded her system. She knew her masquerade was only going to last for a short time, but at the moment she didn’t know if she was going to get out of the hotel room alive.
She retreated to her double’s purse on the desk and brought it over to the wet bar area. While she’d changed clothes, one of Commander Novak’s men had installed a pick-up microphone in the purse. The range was short, and a concealed button in the strap allowed her to switch the device off to avoid detection. It was the only lifeline she had.
She hoped it would be enough.
Chapter 15
“S ergei Ivanovitch is in the hotel. He’s on his way up to Special Agent St. John’s room.”
Riley nodded at the radio operator sitting at the communications array the SEALs had set up in a secret basement below a warehouse the CIA used to conduct operations. During regular hours, the warehouse shipped goods all over Europe, conducting a profitable import/export business consisting of
Western entertainment in the form of DVDs and video games, and Eastern rugs and handcrafts that shipped back the other way.
“I heard,” Riley said. “Have the support teams there verified Ivanovitch’s presence?”
“Yes, sir,” the SEAL said, tapping the video monitor the network fed. The current image showed the hotel’s lobby. “Ivanovitch is on the premises.”
Riley forced himself to relax. They knew where Sam was; the SEALs were there. But he also knew they could still get to her room too late to save her if Ivanovitch discovered the subterfuge they were attempting to run.
“How many men does Ivanovitch have with him?” Riley asked.
“Ivanovitch is alone. He has a car waiting outside.”
The image on the monitor changed, revealing a long, sleek sedan parked in front of the hotel near the courtesy vans.
“Do we know what he’s doing there?” Riley asked.
“No, sir. We only know that he seemed concerned over Special Agent St. John. I mean, the woman Special Agent St. John is currently impersonating.”
Riley touched his headset. “Put me into the communications loop on what goes on inside that room.”
“Yes, sir.” The communications technician tapped the keyboard.
Riley heard a couple of clicks, then the white noise coming from the headset changed frequencies.
“You’re inside the loop, Special Agent McLane.”
“Thank you.” Everything’s going to be all right, Riley told himself. Sam’s sharp, and she’s a quick study. But he had his doubts. And he had his guilt. He’d been responsible for helping lock her down back at Langley, and getting her here now was entirely his responsibility.
He turned his thoughts away from all the bad things that could happen in the next few minutes and focused on the good that could be done. Ivanovitch’s presence, especially during the time that the American espionage services were being blamed for supplying guns to Berzhaan’s rebels, was too convenient. Judging from Ivanovitch’s Agency jacket, the man had to be involved somehow. He was too good not to be aware of the situation.
And then there was the Cipher. The assassin was somewhere nearby, as well.
Riley still didn’t know where the events surrounding Lorraine Miller Carrington’s death fit in.
He walked to the rear of the hidden area below the warehouse. Years ago, when the basement had first been built, the excavated dirt had been shipped out as cargo with no one the wiser.
The woman who was Elizabeth Harris—Elle, as Sam had informed them over the radio hidden in the woman’s bag—lay on a hospital gurney. The hidden facilities had a small OR for life-or-death situations that arrived there.
The Russian agent was still under the effects of the tranquilizer dart, but she was starting to come out of it. She occasionally thrashed and fought against the restraints that held her down. She wore a gown, handcuffs and ankle cuffs.
Evidently, the drugs had triggered a nightmare that kept repeating. She spoke Russian in the voice of a small child, alternately begging and pleading, then angry. Three of the SEALs spoke Russian and had translated. She’d spoken some names.
Riley had written them all down, not missing a chance to get any information. A family name, Leonov, was repeated several times. Three names—Natasha, Mother and Father—were constantly repeated, in Russian, as if the woman were calling out to them.
The satellite phone in Riley’s pocket vibrated for attention. He answered it. “McLane.” The connection was heavily encrypted and there was no danger of anyone breaking the security coding.
“Riley.”
Recognizing Director Stone Mitchell’s voice at once, Riley said, “Yes, sir.” The first thought that flashed through his mind was that the director was calling to scrap the mission.
“Something interesting turned up on the background discovery you asked for,” Mitchell said.
Otherwise you wouldn’t have called, Riley thought, but he said, “Regarding what?”
“I was told you still have St. John’s double in custody.”
“Yes.”
“And that you were running names she was mentioning while under the effect of the tranquilizer.”
Riley waited.
“The name Leonov popped up with some serious baggage attached to it,” Mitchell said.
“What baggage?” Riley looked at the legal pad he’d been taking notes on. He’d circled Leonov.
“Boris and Anya Leonov,” Mitchell said. “Log on to the FTP site. I’m sending you a file. Your eyes only. Commander Novak and his team get this information only on a need-to-know basis.”
Curious, Riley opened the notebook computer on a stainless steel table next to the gurney. He’d been working on the computer, which was connected to the heavily encrypted satellite-connected network provided for espionage teams using the facility. He opened the FTP connection and watched as the file Mitchell sent was uncompressed and opened. Several documents and photographs opened in separate windows.
“As it turns out, Boris Leonov and his wife Anya were double agents for Britain decades ago,” Mitchell said. As he spoke, a picture of a young man with ice-blue eyes and a beautiful, petite young woman with startling blond hair floated to the top of the computer screen.
Riley stared at the screen. “Double agents?”
“They were both KGB,” Mitchell said, “but neither of them bought into the Communist party line. Anya Leonov, under her maiden name Petrov, was a gymnastics competitor in the 1968 and 1972 Olympics. She didn’t medal either time, but she was a serious contender.”
The next picture showed the blond woman in a leotard doing a one-handed handstand atop uneven bars. The woman’s petite build and obvious athletic ability immediately reminded Riley of Sam St. John. It also reminded him of the woman lying on the gurney.
“After their marriage and activation as KGB agents,” Mitchell continued, “MI-6 flipped the Leonovs, employing them as double agents. They were good at what they did, and good at walking the thin line dictated by life as a double agent. Their handler offered to bring them in, but they weren’t ready to leave their families. They felt that the Communist regime couldn’t last much longer and wanted to do everything they could to hasten that end. But that started to change when Anya Leonov gave birth.”
Another picture floated up, showing the Leonovs at home as proud parents. They held two babies.
“Once their twin daughters, Elle and Natasha, were born,” Mitchell said, “the Leonovs wanted to come in. An arrangement was made, but something happened.”
Twins, Riley thought. His mind reeled against the implications. Twin girls. White-blond hair from their mother, and ice-blue eyes from their father. Sam’s first language was Russian.
The monitor changed, showing the wreckage of a bomb-blasted car.
“Unfortunately,” Mitchell said, “the Leonovs didn’t get clear of Moscow. The KGB was already tracking them down. Their car was hit by an RPG-7 anti-tank rocket.”
Riley’s throat went dry. He’d seen firsthand the kind of damage an anti-tank rocket could cause. And whoever had fired the rocket had known the Leonovs had children.
“The girls weren’t killed,” Riley whispered.
“No. Apparently not. The Leonovs had already taken steps to get the girls out of the country and were hoping to smuggle them to America. Although, only one of them was thought to have survived a secondary attempt to kill the children. One of the girls was believed to have been killed. The other was adopted by a Russian family. To further hide her, the baby took the surname of her adoptive parents. Her name is Elle Petrenko.”
Riley felt a featherlight touch at his back where he kept a spare S&W .40 caliber pistol that matched the one under his left arm. He started turning, knowing already that he was too late. From the corner of his eye, he saw official Russian SVR identification pop up on the monitor screen. The face in the ID belonged to the woman on the gurney.
And it could have belonged to Sam St. John.
&nb
sp; “Elle Petrenko is an SVR agent,” Mitchell said into his ear.
Riley looked at the young blond woman standing behind him next to the gurney. The restraints lay open on the bed. She held his second .40-caliber pistol, peering at him over the open sights with those ice-blue eyes.
“Bang,” she said softly in English. “You’re dead.”
A knock sounded at the hotel door.
Sam crossed the room, took a deep breath to settle her nerves, and opened the door.
Sergei Ivanovitch stood in the hall with his hands clasped behind him. He wore an elegant white suit that made his dark hair and goatee stand out. A half smile that never touched his eyes curved his lips.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“Of course.” Sam stepped back and allowed him to enter. She closed the door after him.
Ivanovitch reached for her face. She flinched. He held back his hand.
“Are you all right, Elle?” he asked.
“I have been better,” Sam said, her voice distorted by the swelling.
“May I examine you?”
“I would prefer not to be touched.”
“And I would prefer to know how much I can rely on an agent,” Ivanovitch said with a trace of irritation. He reached for her again.
Sam forced herself to stand still. Ivanovitch’s touch was surprisingly gentle. He pushed her face and checked the thin bones surrounding her eyes.
“You don’t appear to have a concussion,” he said.
“Just a headache,” she told him.
“I’m not surprised. Open your mouth.”
Reluctantly, Sam did as she was told. Ivanovitch inserted a finger into her mouth and checked her lips, gums and teeth.
“Your lower lip needs stitches,” he announced, withdrawing his finger. “I’ll have a medical kit brought up.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sam said.
“Nonsense. The matter is simple enough. I can attend to it.” Ivanovitch took out a cell phone and ordered someone to bring a medical kit to the hotel room. He crossed over to the wet bar and poured himself a drink. “In the meantime, I’ve rearranged our delivery.”
Delivery? Sam didn’t let her surprise or curiosity show. What delivery? “Was it because of me? Because of what happened to me?”
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